


A Match That Burns

by mary_pseud



Series: Damnatio Memoriae [5]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Boy Soldiers, Coercion, Dystopia, Kaled, M/M, Military Rank, Serial: s078 Genesis of the Daleks, Skaro, Uniform Fetish, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-18 00:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14201255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_pseud/pseuds/mary_pseud
Summary: The Kaleds of Skaro have been under a military dictatorship for a thousand years: but even more powerful than the military are Davros and his Elite.  Elite Commander Nyder takes what he wants - and what he wants now is Ravon, the young General just posted to the Command Complex.





	1. Flint and Steel

General Ravon sipped thin synthetic wine, and it tasted like victory.

He was in the Kaled Command Centre. Safe at last. After his gruelling childhood training and painful wartime service, after proving himself through every conceivable trial, he had earned the rank of General and a posting behind the lines. He was too valuable to be on the battlefield now.

He hadn't felt this good in years: fed and rested and ready for anything. The filtered air was dry and clean in his nose, with no taint of gas or smoke or rot. His new dress uniform still smelled of fresh dye and was a bit loose on him; he supposed he would grow into it, in time. He still had a little more growth in him, most likely.

Most Kaleds did not live to grow all the way up.

But he would, he swore to himself. He would live to see the end of the unforgivable war, the war that had ground his people into dust and scattered that dust to the winds for a thousand years. He would live. And triumph.

His eyes were bright as he surveyed the men in the plain steel-walled room with him, gathered to celebrate his promotion and new posting. All of the rooms in the Command Centre were fully armoured, even if the Thals had supposedly used up their atomic weapons. He was surrounded by the best of the Kaled military, fellow soldiers who would help him plan and implement the grand strategies that would lead to final victory. He already had some ideas…

His new aide, Glin, a thickset man with prematurely thinning hair, came over and whispered, "We have a problem, sir."

"With what?" Ravon said, swirling the dregs of his wine in his plastic cup, scratched and worn with years of handling. He felt unstoppable, invincible tonight, and it showed in his tone. He felt like there was no problem he couldn't defeat.

"The Elite Security Commander, sir," Glin said, his eyes darting quickly over the party-goers. "He's here."

If the glass in Ravon's hand had not been unbreakable, he would have shattered it. As it was, his knuckles went white before he relaxed and carefully put his glass down on the metal shelf by his elbow. For a moment he thought of how that glass was probably older than he was, but only a moment.

"Nyder?" he said, remembering the name from the command charts where his own name had recently been added. He'd seen the man in the newsreels in which Supreme Commander Davros addressed the people. Beside the mutilated horror that was Davros, Nyder had looked unremarkable: pale and slight, his face blank and unfathomably calm. But the idea of having the man here was unnerving.

He said as much to Glin, and the man's face contorted with fear for an instant.

"Unnerving? He's Davros' second in command. He could order you flayed and staked out in a minefield for the Mutos." Glin's quiet voice dropped even lower. "He's Standard, you know that? Not born Elite. Don't mistake him for one of those soft Dome Security men."

Ravon swallowed. His throat was suddenly dry, but he would rather cross a field of varga plants than go and get another drink. His eyes darted around him as Glin slipped back into the crowd.

This was a decent strategic location, he decided. He was at the far end of the rectangular room, with the mass of attendees between him and the entrance where he could glimpse a pair of unfamiliar Security men standing guard: those must be Nyder's escorts. Two heavy steel buttresses gave him a little space to - and then he stopped himself.

He was General Ravon, of the Kaleds, and he was not going to hide from one of his own people. No matter what sort of a savant the man must be, some sort of freak, to ascend to his current position without being one of the Elite; Nyder was no one to be afraid of.

Still, he had no plans to leave the shelter of this end of the room at the present time.

 

* * *

Commander Nyder moved in a slipstream of silence. Wherever he went, men glanced away, turned aside, and dropped their voices. In respect or in fear, or both: Nyder did not care.

He was small, half a head shorter than most of the partygoers. His particular birth batch had got fewer calories than optimum due to wartime rationing. But his slender body wore the black uniform of the Security Elite, and his epaulettes had the silver buckles of his rank. He needed no other decoration; he had even declined to put on a dress uniform for the occasion.

He was not here to celebrate. He was here to make absolutely certain that this new General recognised his place in the command chain - his real place. In the past some officers had become fractious, putting the safety of their troops above Davros' will.

Such men needed to be corrected - or replaced. Quickly.

Ravon could not see him, but he could see Ravon. Nyder tilted his head a fraction, harsh overhead lighting gleaming from his rimless glasses like needles, and considered.

A boy barely a man, he thought with contempt. Sandy-haired and still a bit spotty about the cheeks. His uniform dripped with medals and honours. He imagined him spoilt, cosseted, knowing that he was destined to be an officer. Extra rations, extra training, extra attention: always knowing that he was special. And now he was in the Command Centre, and every man who saw him would know that he earned his place.

The way they knew that Nyder had not. That he was just a common soldier, elevated to his present role by Davros' will. An impostor, a fraud, a cheat. He had to work three times as hard to earn their respect, and when even that wasn't enough he simply earned their fear, and left it at that.

He looked at the arch of the General's throat, the square shape of his hands and the lines of his body, and considered. Perhaps it would be amusing to drive home his authority personally.

 

* * *

Ravon had no idea how the man had got there. He had been standing a little behind the buttress - not hiding behind it, really, just near it - when there was a sudden motion behind him and the feeling of something small and hard pressed to the base of his spine. It felt like a gun barrel.

He opened his mouth to shout Assassin! or Intruder! but then a cold smooth voice behind him said a name.

"Nyder."

Ravon relaxed back on his heels, standing very still. He hadn't even had time to let the panic show on his face.

"Ravon," he said flatly. Nothing like introducing yourself at gunpoint to make a good first impression. He stared blindly out at the men milling around the room, laughing and telling jokes, reminiscing, drinking the synthetic wine with relish. None of them paid any attention to the General, or the black shadow at his back.

"You were at Ges Plateau," said Nyder, still cold. That had been one of the greatest battles of the last decade; everyone had said that the winners of it would win the final war as well. Unfortunately it had trailed off into stalemate after each side took too many casualties to proclaim victory.

"Yes. Were you?" He wore the red spiral medal of that engagement prominent among his other honours; Nyder must have seen it.

"My record is none of your concern, General." Nyder's voice clipped that last word as though it was something being discarded.

Ravon flinched inside.

"I want to make sure we understand each other," Nyder continued. "It occasionally falls to me to personally requisition materials for Davros' research. These requests are made on an ad hoc basis, and at infrequent intervals. There is sometimes no time to schedule the materials transfers through the normal channels. But I expect, and Davros expects, that you will do everything in your power and beyond to fulfil those requests." There was something a little too precise in the way that Nyder pronounced his words, as though suppressing an accent. A Standard accent?

"Of course," Ravon replied. Davros was the greatest scientist in the world, building the weapons that would end the war forever. Of course Ravon would give him anything he asked for, no questions asked.

"And in addition, I require your permanent passcode."

"My what?"

The object at the base of Ravon's spine dug deeper. "The passcode to your quarters. Not the one that is changed every ten days. The permanent one."

"Why?" Ravon meant that question to be dismissing, but he was afraid that it came out as pleading. He was confused, he didn't understand what Nyder wanted of him; unless he was planning on waking him up in the middle of the night to deliver a supply requisition.

"Because," Nyder's unwanted touch grazed over the curve of one buttock, and then grabbed and squeezed, "I may need to make other requests of you. In private."

Ravon tried to refuse, even while Nyder's fingers dug in and made it abundantly clear just what was being discussed. The refusal was there on his lips, waiting to be released. But he bit it back.

It was standard military procedure that a solder was allowed to take anyone under him in the chain of command, and be taken by those above him. And in a brutally practical way, it worked. Some would even call it an impetus to promotion.

He wondered what Nyder looked like under his clothes, as he softly whispered the twenty-digit passcode. Did he have scars? Ravon had bunked with a few of the Command Centre personnel, and had been dismayed to find that most of them had hardly any scars at all. They were radio operators, technical workers who had never seen service in the field. He associated men with scars, with battlefield wounds: those smooth stretches of unmarked skin reminded him of children, which rather put a damper on his interest.

The hand left Ravon's bottom and slowly slid up his body, finally coming to rest on the back of his neck. He could feel the cold leather of Nyder's glove just touching his skin. "I expect that you will be wearing this uniform when I come for you," he said.

"But when will you-" This was insane, did the man expect him to sleep in his clothes?

The hand was removed swiftly.

"Turn around. Slowly."

Casually, as though he needed to adjust his uniform, Ravon turned and looked. Then he dropped his gaze.

Commander Nyder was shorter than Ravon, but there was nothing of weakness or vulnerability in him. His sleek dark hair and impassive face framed intent eyes, eyes that seemed to know terrible things.

Nyder leaned closer to the younger man, and ran one gloved hand over his cheek. His left cheek, which meant that the buttress would keep the rest of the room from seeing this caress. The hand went to Ravon's collar and pulled, hard, hard enough to draw the cloth tight against the back of his neck. His neck was half-bared and suddenly Nyder struck with his mouth, pressing it to Ravon's skin, sucking in his flesh. Hard and hot and wet, his teeth grazing him, his tongue grinding against Ravon.

Ravon kept absolutely still under this monstrous parody of a kiss, feeling Nyder's breath panting hot over his skin in harsh bursts through his nose, and tried to ignore the way he stiffened at the touch.

When Nyder pulled back and carefully raised Ravon's collar, there was a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth. Ravon's blood. It moved with his lips as he whispered, "I will come for you before that mark is gone." And then he slipped away into the party, and the little ripples of silence radiated out from him until he left.

Ravon stood absolutely still, back to the room and lips white with fury. How dare the man just - harass him, attack him. In the middle of a party, by the Gods. He would file a formal complaint, he would, he would…he would do nothing.

He could do nothing. Nyder was Davros' second in command, and if he wanted something or someone, he got it.

And apparently, what he wanted was Ravon.


	2. Paper and Fire

After the party, Ravon returned to his quarters, where his few personal possessions rattled around like pebbles in a canister. A broken gunstock with an elaborate carving of a tank on it; a rock embossed with the pattern of fossilised leaves; a bottle with the shell of a purple-gold gleaming insect. The souvenirs of his tour of duty, outside in the Wastelands. They were overlaid now with his new uniforms, new weapons, new charts and books and maps.

His quarters included a tiny private lavatory where he could examine the red welt that Nyder's mouth had put on his neck. The man had sucked hard enough to actually draw blood through the skin, staining Ravon's undershirt.

He put the shirt aside, carefully washed himself inside and out, and put his dress uniform back on. He lay down on the bunk, and tossed and turned before deciding that Nyder or no Nyder, he was sleeping without the new dress boots. They pinched.

He fell asleep.

He woke up and Nyder had not come. He went on duty, gave orders, made plans, shared his past experiences, and then returned to his quarters. His dress uniform was a bit wrinkled across the back, but he slept in it anyway.

And the next night.

And the next.

He lay awake on his bunk and pictured himself exploring Nyder's body with hands and lips and tongue, caressing him everywhere. He imagined kneeling, spreading, being forced, being controlled. Giving up all his power, all his responsibility, and riding light and powerful under the other man's hands, free as the clouds….

The mark on his neck had a mottled purple centre; that faded with time to more of a pinkish spot. He shaved around it carefully, touched it with his fingers again and again, and then covered it with his collar and went back to work.

Nyder would come. The wrinkles in his dress uniform were getting harder to take out, but he was terrified of sending it to be laundered. What if they lost it? What if it wasn't ready? What if he wasn't ready?

He lay on the bunk, his thumb against his chin (he only sucked his thumb when he was very upset) and waited. And then, again, he fell asleep.

 

* * *

He awoke to pitch blackness. The sound of breathing, the rasp of a boot on the tiled floor. He was not alone.

Ravon gasped, and opened his mouth to speak - only to feel a cold leather glove over his face.

"The only thing you're opening your mouth for is my prick," hissed Nyder's unmistakable voice out of the darkness. "I don't want to hear a sound out of you, understand?"

Ravon was too stunned to speak for a moment. Then he felt Nyder's other hand pinching his nostrils shut, cutting off his air, and he nodded frantically.

Nyder's hands relaxed, and slipped away. Then the sound and the pressure of him crawling over the sheets, moving to straddle his prey.

"Move up," and Ravon slithered upwards on the bunk, then stopped at the touch of Nyder's hand on top of his head. His neck was awkwardly bent, but his comfort was apparently of no interest to the Commander. Nyder's hands were on his chest now, feeling the enamelled shapes of his medals. Ravon could hear them clink against each other as they were brushed back and forth on their short ribbons.

"I could strip every honour off you," Nyder said, his words as cold as stone. "I could wipe your record bare. Get you reassigned to the Wastelands. Or to the culling ward."

Ravon was already excited enough to pant, but that threat touched something deep in him, made him even more eager. He breathed through his nose, trying to keep quiet, not to make a sound. He smelled sweat and leather and gunpowder, and the unmistakable smell of male arousal radiating from Nyder. He was hard already, but his arms were trapped by the sheet and by Nyder's legs around him; he couldn't touch himself as he so desperately wanted to. Or let himself be touched either.

A gloved fingertip on his lower lip; it traced the lines of his mouth with quick deftness. Even in his current state, Ravon spared a thought to how Nyder could touch him so precisely in the darkness.

"Now," Nyder said, his voice caressing the word as his hands did not caress Ravon. "Open your mouth."

Ravon did so, breathing out and feeling the blowback as something pressed close against his face, and then grasping eagerly with his lips at what was offered. Forced more than offered; he had to relax his jaw and open his mouth wide enough to almost hurt. But Nyder was finally here, skin to skin, and he sucked (because his tongue had no room to lick), sucked hard, tasting and smelling and sucking all at once, never wanting to let him go.

What was already in his mouth was enough to make him wonder: did the man have a truncheon in his pants? If the rest was on the same scale as the head-

"Enough!"

Ravon froze, and did not whimper as Nyder drew roughly away. Had he done something wrong already?

"Up!" and Ravon fumblingly rose, and was hustled across the floor; he flinched when he thought he was about to bash his head against the doorframe but Nyder's hand in his hair guided him (and again he wondered how the man could see anything) and he found himself in his lavatory, the sink's lip hard across his arse, Nyder's smouldering presence in front of him like an unseen fire.

"Strip off. Everything," and Ravon did, trying to stay close to the sink while he did, so as not to catch Nyder with a knee in the dark. He was glad to be barefoot, for the traction; he could get off trousers and jacket (carefully folding it inside-out so that the medals lay flat) and undershirt and pants without too much difficulty. He could hear Nyder panting, just a little, and it made him want to pant as well. He wanted Nyder on him, wanted him inside-

"Turn around," and Ravon did. The sink pressed coldly at his genitals, and he shifted at the discomfort. Then there was something being put into his palm, a small flat container. He recognised the shape of it: a standard tin of cartridge grease. Sterile silicone lubricant.

"Make yourself ready. Open yourself for me. And you'd better be clean, or else..." Nyder hissed out the last word, and Ravon quickly calculated: his internal clock told him he'd only been asleep a few hours, he should still be clean. He opened the canister one-handed, scooping up the grease and laving it between his arse cheeks, consciously relaxing to get some inside. He kept hoping that Nyder would join in, would touch him as well, probe him, finger him hot and slick, feel for himself how ready he was.

Instead there was a hand against the back of his head, pressing his face forward until he could feel the cold mirror pressed to his forehead and nose. Instead there was another hand gripping his shoulder, hard enough to bruise, and drawing him down, making him bend his knees. With no warning but a huff of expelled breath, Nyder lunged and Ravon did not scream. He wanted to; his lips curled back and he could feel the condensation of his breath start to wet his chin. The flesh penetrating him was huge, stretching Ravon, he was going to tear-

No. Nyder kept pressing inwards, and once the unseen (but tremendous) head of his prick was inside Ravon, the pain halved. Nyder's shaft was not on the same scale as the rest, fortunately, or Ravon would have been unable to accommodate him. But he rammed deep inside, until he could go no further. He met no resistance.

He whispered, "Good boy," and then started to thrust.

Ravon writhed, thrusting backwards in turn. Oh yes, oh yes, he longed to cry, shout, scream. It was wonderful, even the hands holding him so roughly were part of the delight. To be filled, to be fucked, helpless and mute and all in the dark, with nothing but the sensation of the hot prick inside him and the cold of tile and glass and porcelain against him: it was exquisite. And the noises and curses that Nyder let out, a little burst of them with every thrust, only made it better. And it went on and on and on and on. Ravon needed both hands to keep his balance; he didn't have a chance to touch himself. But any second now, he swore, he would peak of his own accord.

Then suddenly it was over. Nyder pressed tight to his victim, close enough for Ravon to feel the tickle of body hair against his skin, and then with one long pull he was out, and Ravon was empty.

The lights came on; the lavatory was small enough that you could reach the light switch from anywhere. Ravon found himself staring into his own reflection, seeing his eyes huge with excitement and wet with tears. The grip on his head was still there, and he couldn't pull away. Well of course he could, he could think of many steps to break the hold, they had been drilled into him during combat training. But drilled into him as well had been the deep and sure knowledge that to raise your hand to a superior officer was death.

He was shaking with semi-shock, unrelieved arousal, and the strain of standing with his knees bent. Nyder seemed to notice, because after a moment the hand on his head relaxed and moved away. When he finally managed to get his weight squarely on his heels, he turned to look -and flinched. Nyder's face was obscured by two great black lenses, edged with flat black gears and levers and strapped to his head with a broad elastic strap that also held tarnished cylindrical battery packs. Those were – those were antique light-sensitive goggles, there was a standing requisition that any found were to be given to the military for officers in the field! He remembered scrabbling through desperate night battles, damning himself for not being able to see the battlefield without endangering himself or his men. And here those priceless tools were, being used as a toy for Nyder's games.

Nyder turned his head a fraction and the lenses tilted; Ravon imagined that he could hear the whirring of the motors adjusting them, but of course they were silenced. The goggles must be centuries old: the Kaleds did not have the technology to build equipment of this type anymore.

Nyder hadn't even taken his gloves off. With quick snapping motions he peeled a black elastic sheath from his emptied prick, tucking it and himself away and buttoning up his uniform. Without speaking, he turned to leave.

"Don't go." The words just fell out, and Ravon swallowed as Nyder turned back to him, too fast. His lips trembled; what if he still wasn't allowed to say anything?

"Speak!" Nyder finally snapped.

"I – are we – when will you be back - Commander?" Ravon had absolutely nothing to stand on; he couldn't judge Nyder's face as to whether he had won the man's approval with his enthusiasm. He was cringingly aware of how he must look, nude and shaking with strain, hair matted to his forehead, and he was certain that every blemish on his complexion was standing out like a signal flare at night.

"I will return when it pleases me to," Nyder said flatly. He jerked his chin up a fraction. "If it pleases me to." His lips pursed as he (apparently) examined Ravon's sweating face and tense body more closely. "If I choose to return, if I say I wish to see you, you will immediately do as I command...anything, that I command. And if you do not obey me, you will be punished." This threat was delivered in a cold flat tone that made Ravon's skin creep.

Then he left.


	3. Blistered

Ravon lay naked on his bunk, cradling his genitals in his hands. His knees hurt, and his forehead and his jaw, but this ached the most. He had been too hard, for too long. Now he hurt.

His prick was thick and puffy, but not fully erect. He dreaded what it would be like to get an erection now. How much it would hurt to peak. The sensible thing to do would be to go to sleep, and then get it off in the morning.

He didn't want to be sensible. He wanted to peak, now, with the smell of Nyder's presence still in the air, with his touch still tingling against his skin.

He looked down at himself. Then he stared at the bare steel ceiling above him, and tried to think of a fantasy.

Normally when he fantasised, he thought of illegal excesses. When he was a boy he had woken wet and spent from dreams in which he found an unlocked storeroom and ate all the food pills he wanted, or fired a weapon with no care for conserving ammunition. Stealing and lying and cheating, breaking the rules: those were his fantasies.

This hardly applied to Nyder, though. Nyder was above any law; his orders were law. If he ordered Ravon to take his service dagger and cut the throat of every member of the Kaled Council, Ravon would be obligated to do it. Everything that the Security Commander ordered or did was, by definition, legal. Even lies, theft, torture and murder.

Then he thought of something. Something truly forbidden, to both of them, always. His hand closed over his tormented flesh and started to rub as his fantasy came to life.

Desertion.

He imagined night, and Nyder's touch on his shoulder awakening him. His cold voice suddenly warm as he whispered, "I'm running away, Ravon. Come with me. Come away with me, away from this war, away from everything."

They would run away together: to the ocean, to the islands. They would live together, grow their own food, hunt animals for meat. They would have enough to eat every day: no more splitting rations with others who gulped them down and turned away without a word of thanks. They would build a hidden shelter, far away from the war. A place just for them. They would never see a tank or a soldier or an enemy again, ever. They would be alone together, forever.

And they could touch each other whenever they wanted: hold hands, smile, talk. They could touch and touch, with no one to forbid it or distract them. They could - they would - sleep in each others' arms, every night. Every night they would touch, kiss, breathe in the smell of each other's skin, lick and caress and love each other, every night-

He peaked and it hurt. It hurt like his orgasm was being dragged out of his body with a dull knife. He didn't care. He writhed on his bunk and imagined running away, running far away from the war, abandoning his post and his rank and his people, leaving it all for Nyder.

When he had finally emptied himself, he lay there under the lights, wet-handed and wet-eyed.

Nyder, he thought to himself. Please come back to me. Soon.

 

* * *

Commander Nyder returned to the Bunker, and checked himself in. He was serenely certain that nothing of his activities showed: his uniform was spotless, the flush gone from his face.

He would have been shocked to discover that after he left the Security checkpoint, the enlisted men quietly discussed the fact that someone else had obviously been polishing Nyder's brass, so to speak.

"Fine," Captain Tane finally said under his breath. "It will keep him off us." And with silent glances, they all gave their agreement.

After returning the goggles to Stores, Nyder walked quickly towards his quarters, anticipating a hot shower and his bunk. He exchanged brisk nods with the Security patrols, noting with approval that they were keeping to their carefully randomised schedule. He turned one corner, and then another, saw a glimpse of a familiar blue light in the gleaming metal wall beside him, and snapped to attention, standing still.

After a long moment, Davros came around the corner. His support chair was silent, and the rasp of his mechanically-aided breathing was the only sound.

He pointed his blind, shrivelled face to Nyder and said softly, "You are out late, Commander. An unexpected task?"

"I had personal business. Sir."

Davros rolled closer, the vision implant glowing like a blue gem in the middle of his creased forehead. "I see." A dreadful pause. "Your predecessor never took time for - personal business."

Nyder swallowed.

"However. You are officially off duty, and I am certain that you will never let your personal business interfere with your work. Our work."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir," Nyder said snappily.

Davros could not really gesture; his sole hand shivered with an endless palsy of misfiring nerves and seared muscles. But he bobbed his hand up and down, and Nyder correctly read this as an order to stay.

"How did you know that I was waiting for you here, Commander?" Davros' voice was a metallic rasp.

Nyder turned his head for an instant, deliberately looking at the corridor behind him. He answered as he looked back, "I saw your reflection on the wall, sir."

"Ah." Davros drifted a bit to one side, as though confronting that reflection; the blurred hint of half a man. "I will remember that."

Nyder's face was immobile, but inside he remembered with bitter humour Davros shutting off his artificial sight during conversations with people he found particularly boring; he would sit there, talking and answering, blind to the world.

"Good night, Commander," and Davros spun on his axis, gliding back to his quarters where he would be put on stand-by for the night. Davros did not sleep.

"Good night, sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters in this story appear in the Fourth Doctor serial "Genesis of the Daleks'; I have taken the liberty of assigning a name to Glin, who can be seen manning the radio in Ravon's map room in the original episode.
> 
> This story could be read as part of canon, but some original material (the Elite/Standard divide) makes it probably better to read this as part of my own AU, Damnatio Memoriae. 
> 
> In canon, this story would simply take place at some point before 'Genesis of the Daleks.'
> 
> It can reasonably be said that Ravon is a very emotionally unwell young man, who has apparently eroticised danger, and now has the same reaction to the man threatening him. This is certainly not a normal seduction, and should not be taken as one.
> 
> There is a scene in 'Genesis' where Nyder tells Ravon, "I wish to see you," and Ravon (who is under duress) replies "If you'll wait in my office, Nyder, I'll be a few minutes." Based on the relationship between them in this story, that statement would have been a signal to Nyder that Ravon was in trouble.


End file.
